


different

by theslap (bigspoonnoya)



Series: mr. connor & friends [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alive Cole Anderson, Cabin Fic, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Relationship Development, vacation sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-16 21:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16502741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigspoonnoya/pseuds/theslap
Summary: Hank and Connor celebrate their first anniversary.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> this is set in the same universe as my multichapter fic, the other way to someday. if you don’t wanna read that first, you could probably just read this an all-human AU where cole is alive.

“Christ, I love Markus. I love that kid. Have you told him I love him, lately?”

“I haven’t. Was that something you expected me to tell him?”

“Actually, no, don’t. But come look at this view.”

Hank is gesturing Connor toward the wide window at the back of the Manfred family cabin, which overlooks the snowy grandeur of Lake Michigan. It’s by Markus’s invitation that they have the cabin to themselves for a week—a belated anniversary gift—hence Hank’s sudden affection for Connor’s old friend.

“I’ve been here before, I know what it looks like,” says Connor, struggling with their suitcases. “Hank, can you help me?” Hank looks over and sees Connor burdened with luggage, and hops to it.

They get the rest of the stuff in from the car in two trips. Connor planned and packed all their meals so they wouldn’t have to suffer the forty-minute drive to the nearest town, and they’ve brought household supplies too, toilet paper and whatnot. If they have to leave this property at any point over the next seventy-two hours (at least!), Connor will consider the trip a failure. It’s supposed to be him and Hank, _alone_ , for seven days.

These are things they don’t get in their day-to-day: privacy and time. They have a happy but noisy home, always with dogs needing to be walked and lunches needing to be packed and gutters needing to be cleaned. When they get to be alone, it’s either a stolen moment or a nighttime interval when they’re too tired to do anything but hold each other until they fall asleep. Or a massively orchestrated event, like this trip.

But Connor had done it—the massive orchestration. He’d gotten Niles to watch Sumo, booked Cole’s flight to Hank’s mother’s house in Florida, pestered Hank to submit his time away request, and lined all of it up with his spring break. Before they left, he made sure he’d done all the laundry, washed all the dishes, and packed Hank’s suitcase while he was stuck at the station finishing up a slew of pre-vacation paperwork. On the drive up, he navigated them around several road closures, using a paper map when the service went bad. Connor even remembered to bring a gift, a nice bottle of wine, for the caretaker who lived in a cabin by the entrance to the driveway.

Now the bags are inside and the blinds have been opened. The groceries and their suitcases are put away. Connor finally takes a moment to look at the view of the lake from the main room. The beach is covered in snow but the waves still beat against it, forming a jagged, icy seam between land and water.

He feels the weight and warmth of Hank pressing into his back. “Guess what?” Hank asks, wrapping his arms around Connor’s chest. Connor lets his head fall back against Hank’s shoulder.

“What?”

“We’re here.”

“We are.”

“So you can stop stressing about how we’re going to get here and start being on vacation.”

“I wasn’t—” Ha. Right. “Oh,” he says, shoving his fingers under his glasses to rub his eyes. “I can’t even pretend I wasn’t.”

Hank laughs with his whole body, his chest shaking against Connor, who manages a wheezy chuckle. “This place is fucking nice, Con. We shoulda been artists.”

“I don’t think most artists are as successful as the Manfreds have been.” Markus once told Connor he thinks this cabin exists mostly because his father wanted another place to decorate, and it certainly is—unique. “Come on,” says Connor, wriggling from Hank’s arms. “I’ll make you lunch.”

“Sure. Sure. Can I ask why there’s a taxidermy pig in the master bedroom?”

Connor turns back to Hank and says, with an unflinching expression, “No.”

“All right then.” Hank pats Connor’s ass. “Let’s get lunch going.”

 

 

###

 

 

Day two at the cabin begins with breakfast in bed. Not as a romantic gesture, but because Hank can’t get up.

Connor brings him egg whites, whole-wheat toast, coffee, and a side of ibuprofen. “I’m sorry,” he says, taking a seat on the foot of the bed. Hank is sitting upright with the aid of several pillows.

“I’m thinking this one might be on time and not you.” Hank bites the corner off of his toast. “This whole situation,” he says, indicating his body, “can’t do two-hour sex marathons anymore, and I knew this, and I still…” He trails off, pulling a face. He can’t describe what happened last night, except that six months of hushed late-night fucking with the door closed finally caught up with them.

“We had a lot of pent-up energy,” is Connor’s chosen descriptor. He’s not wrong. “What do you think did it? Threw out your back, I mean.”

Hank nods thoughtfully, chewing. “The wall.” Connor might be skinny, but he’s not so light that fucking him into a wall for fifteen minutes didn’t require an extreme amount of exertion on Hank’s part.

Connor winces and pats Hank’s foot under the covers. “Would it help if I told you I really enjoyed that part?”

“It helps my ego. My back, not so much.”

“We can relax today. I’m sore, too.”

“You are?” says Hank, biting back a smile.

Connor glares. “Yes. I am.”

“Was all that a little too much for you?”

“No.”

“Oh, yeah? So if I told you to come over here and sit on my dick you’d be, what, fine? No complaints?”

Connor squirms uncomfortably where he sits—his ass hurts, for sure. “I’ll admit… we may have overdone it slightly.” Hank feels a pang of guilt and drops the teasing.

“We’ll take it easy today. No overdoing it.” Hank reaches for his coffee. “Aren’t we supposed to be relaxing this whole trip, anyway?”

“Yes,” says Connor, slowly. He forgot—he spent the whole month leading up to their trip in a frenzy of preparation. “Yes, we would have been relaxing anyway.”

“Connor, this is important,” says Hank, tipping his mug in Connor’s direction. “How are we going to relax today? What’s the most relaxed relaxing you can do? You’ve got one minute.”

“Are you—testing me?”

“Yeah, I know you like being quizzed.”

Connor smiles and put his fingers to his lips. “Okay. What’s the most relaxed way of relaxing?” He adjusts his glasses. “We could read—” Hank is shaking his head (as much as he can stand to do, youch). “—we could watch?” Hank gives him a thumbs up. “We could watch movies. All day. Together on the couch, with lots of blankets.” Connor claps his hands excitedly. “And I’ll make a fire!”

“That’s perfect, babe. You knocked it out of the park.”

“What’s my grade?” says Connor, bouncing on the foot of the bed.

“A-Plus.”

“Percentages are more precise!”

“A hundred and… three?”

Connor stops bouncing. “How did I get an extra three percent?”

“Oh.” Hank talks around a mouthful of eggs. “That’s for blowing me yesterday.” Connor pulls a horrible face and hops off the bed. “Aw, baby,” says Hank, as Connor stalks out of the bedroom. “Did you want me to call it ‘extra credit’ or somethin’?”

Connor forgives the dirty joke, eventually, and helps Hank onto the living room sofa. A double dose of pain killer and a little caffeine do wonders for Hank’s back, and by midday he can move around, and by the evening, he’s only a little stiff. He helps Connor prepare dinner and they eat their meal by the fire. Connor seems relaxed until he gets onto a work topic, a student with behavioral problems, and Hank can see his shoulders visibly tense. He lets Connor vent for a few minutes—venting is good, if you know when to stop. Connor doesn’t, but Hank can tell by his pout when he switches from venting to stewing. After a year together, he’s got his reaction time down to a second.

“Okay,” he announces, collecting their now empty plates. “I’m going to pour you a glass of wine and we’re not going to talk about work for the rest of the night.”

“Was I rambling?” Connor asks miserably. Six months ago he would’ve followed that question with an apology, but Hank has him working on his tendency to apologize for things that aren’t his fault.

“Nope, but you were getting yourself into a funk, and we aren’t going to do that tonight.” Hank pops the cork on the wine. “We’re going to have fun.”

For Connor, that means Scrabble. Hank consents to two full-length games, both of which he loses, no surprise. Connor cleans up the game, looking stupidly pleased with himself. Hank sinks into the couch. He knew he wouldn’t beat Connor in a famously nerdy board game, but the gap between their scores was humiliating.

“I don’t know about that one word you used,” he complains, scratching his stomach.

“Chutzpah?” Connor sounds muffled, like he’s gone into another room. “It’s Yiddish.”

Hank doesn’t trust his back to twist around and see where Connor went, so he settles for talking to the disembodied voice. “I thought only English words were allowed.”

“It’s originally Yiddish, but it’s in the American English vernacular.”

“I’ve never heard it.”

“That’s because you’re a goy.” Connor sweeps back into the living room, holding one of Hank’s big wool sweaters. “Can I borrow this? I’m freezing.”

“Yeah,” Hank snorts. “You own four hundred sweaters. Did you not pack any?”

Connor pulls Hank’s sweater over his head. He struggles with the excess fabric, but gets it on over the button-down he’s wearing. Hank asked why he’d still wear a button-down on vacation; according to Connor, the tiny light blue polka dots make it ‘a fun one.’ “All my sweaters are mid-weight. I forgot how cold it gets up here in the winter.”

“You know where it’s warmer?” Hank opens his arms, welcoming Connor to the couch.

He’s surprised when Connor settles not beside him, but across his hips. “Is this hurting you?” Connor asks, running his hands across Hank’s chest.

“Not yet, but don’t, uh, jump around a lot?”

Connor’s shoulders slump, and he frowns. “It’s almost ten o’clock, and your back still hurts, and I don’t think my, um—I’m not ready, for…”

It takes Hank a minute to get what Connor’s saying, partly because the stroking of his chest is distractingly pleasant, and partly because it’s insane. “Con, we don’t have to go at it every night we’re here.”

“I want to use our time wisely.”

“And that doesn’t have to mean we fuck constantly.” Hank takes Connor’s pouting face in his hands. He’s beautiful, with all his moles and freckles and the way his eyebrows arch together prettily when he’s trying to get what he wants. “I got a bad back, and—I know it’s hard to hear, baby, but remember I love you—maybe there’s a limit to the amount of big dick your ass can take.”

Connor’s nose wrinkles. “How dare you,” he says flatly. Hank laughs.

After a beat of consideration, Connor puts his forehead against Hank’s and sighs. His warm breath smells like wine. Hank pulls him into a close-mouthed kiss, nice and soft. A kiss to say, it’s okay. When they break the kiss, Hank continues the romantic mood by murmuring, “Why don’t you blow me instead?”

Connor immediately slides off his lap, glaring. Fuck.

“Sorry—”

“The way you talk about blowjobs like they’re currency is annoying.”

“Okay, yeah, you’re right—”

“You’ve performed oral sex on me almost as much as I have on you.”

Hank sits slack-jawed, staring up at him. “Uh. Yes, I have. I’ll… I can do it to you too. If that’s what you want.”

Connor glances down, losing a sliver of his fire to anxiousness. “I wasn’t trying to get you to offer that. I just—I want you to stop teasing me about blowing you. It makes it seem like I should be embarrassed about it.”

It takes Hank a good long while to process that one. He has to scratch his beard and lick his lips and everything. “Then I’ll stop. Teasing you, I mean. If you don’t like it.”

Connor shifts his weight. He keeps playing with the too-long sleeves of Hank’s sweater. “I find performing—giving blow jobs—I find it gratifying for myself, as your partner. It’s an exchange, not something I give away without getting anything in return. Which is how I’m assuming you feel about it, too.”

“Yeah. Of course.” Blowing Connor is fantastic, every time. That’s a no-brainer. This conversational tangent Connor’s gone off on is less clear to him.

“I want our sex to be equal, and fair.”

“Do you feel like… it hasn’t been?”

“I don’t know.” Hank reaches for Connor’s hand, and Connor allows him to take it. “I think it has. I’m not sure where this is coming from.”

“Hey, any time you feel like it’s not fair, I want to hear about it.” Hank squeezes Connor’s fingers. “I thought you liked a little… I don’t know, braggadocio? But I can limit it to dirty talk.”

“I do like it,” says Connor, frowning. “Sometimes. And then other times—” He sucks in a deep breath, and speaks on the exhale. “I want something different.”

“As long as it’s with you, I’m good with different.”

Connor nods, takes another deep breath, and climbs back onto Hank’s lap. He puts his hands on Hank’s shoulders, sliding them up to tangle in Hank’s hair, and kisses him—harder than their previous kiss, his tongue in Hank’s mouth, his breathing hard.

When he pulls away, he says, panting, “Have you ever been the receiving partner during anal sex?” Which are not words that make sense to Hank, right away.

While he’s figuring it out—picking apart the phrase ‘receiving partner during anal sex’ in his head—Connor snugs into his neck, kissing the stubble where his beard ends. Hank laughs gently, because Connor’s nose tickles, and he’s never noticed that before. Probably because Connor doesn’t kiss his neck very often. It’s usually the other way around. Him giving Connor hickies just low enough for his collar to hide them.

_Oh._

“Oh,” Hank says. “Oh, okay.”

Connor sits back to look at him. He straightens his glasses—he hardly ever wears his contacts anymore, except for work. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Uh.” Hank has, for the most part, avoided discussing his sexual history with Connor. Partly because it’s embarrassing, and partly because Connor doesn’t like hearing about it, which makes this question weird and obvious and not asked out of casual curiosity. “Your question… the answer to your question is, I guess—yeah.” Knowing Connor, he isn’t looking for ‘yes, my dead wife used to fuck me up the ass with a dildo sometimes.’ That works out: Hank didn’t want to have to say it.

“Did you enjoy it?”

Hank runs his hands over his face. Connor is just sitting there, on his lap, all pretty and sweet. He’s excited—Hank can tell because he can’t stop fiddling with the excessive of Hank’s sweater—his pupils are blown, his lips are reddened from kissing.

And (Hank has to say it in his head, to help himself come to terms with what’s happening) he wants to fuck Hank. Not in the general sense, the nebulous _sleeping_ _with_ version of the term, but in the active sense. He wants to put his dick up Hank’s ass and _fuck_ him. Like Hank has done to him, what, dozens of times now.

Unless Hank is getting ahead of himself. Connor hasn’t said he wants this outright, after all, he’s just broached the topic. There’s no reason for Hank to go jumping to conclusions. _Except_ _that_ _you_ _want_ _him_ _to_ _want_ _it_ , says a small voice in the back of his head. God, fuck. He can dig into what the hell that’s about later, he decides.

“It was pretty good, yeah,” Hank manages, trying to seem cool and macho about it, because he’s an idiot. He wants to shift the spotlight a little, make this less about what he has or hasn’t had inside of him and how he felt about it. He brushes the stray curl from Connor’s eyes. “What about you? Have you ever been on the other side of things?”

Connor’s brow furrows. “Once. A long time ago.”

“And did you like it?”

“I guess if I really liked it, I would’ve done it again,” says Connor, flashing him a smile.

“Yeah, sure.” Hank clears his throat. _Don’t_ _sound_ _disappointed_. _Don’t_ _sound_ _disappointed_. “Fair enough.” It’s not like he won’t enjoy getting a standard handjob or whatever else Connor has planned for their night. He and Connor have a better sex life than most guys his age would dream of. He wouldn’t even have thought about—switching it up—if Connor hadn’t brought the concept. He doesn’t normally think about stuff like, you know, how Connor might whine and gasp desperately while pushing inside Hank. How he wouldn’t be able to stop his narrow hips from pressing as deep as his cute little dick could manage. How his thrusts would be fast and uneven, because he isn’t used to this, and he didn’t know how good Hank was going to feel, and it’s almost too much for him.

Yeah, he—doesn’t normally think about that stuff. Maybe he’s thinking about it now, sure, but you know. Connor brought it up.

Hank looks away, nodding absently, doing an impression of a casual, chill dude. He can feel Connor staring at him.

Connor begins, sounding diplomatic, “Are you interested in—”

Hank puts a hand on his elbow. “Hey, I’m interested in whatever you’re interested in.”

“Are you sure?” Connor lowers his voice, as though there were anyone around to hear them. “You have an erection.”

Hank looks down. Well, fuck. _Traitor_ , he thinks, squinting at his crotch.

“Hank,” says Connor, poking his face toward Hank’s. “If you want—”

“I’m hard because you’re sitting on my lap and touching me.” Hank claps Connor on the shoulder, in a sort of friendly, masculine way that Hank instantly knows is weird between the two of them. “I’m into whatever you’re into. You want some more wine? I’ll pour you some more wine.”

He moves to get Connor off his lap, but Connor doesn’t budge. His expression has gone steely. “Stop interrupting me.”

Hank’s tongue leadens in his mouth. He nods.

Connor straightens his back and sticks out his chin. He’s cute when he gets determined. “It’s true that being on top is not… the most comfortable role, for me.” Hank opens his mouth and Connor puts a finger to his lips, which for some reason makes Hank’s erection worse. Jesus. “But I—we have done a lot of things together that I considered outside my comfort zone at first, because I wanted to try them, and… you make me feel safe to try things.” Connor’s hand drifts down Hank’s chest and over his belly and rests on his belt buckle. “I can’t promise to be as good at it as you are.” Connor smiles. Hank returns it. “But I can try.”

Hank is feeling—a few things. What Connor just said was touching, and not even in a weird way, in a real way. Connor trusts him enough to try something sexual he hasn’t done in a decade, and didn’t love when he did. And Hank is touched, he is. But he’s also very, very horny all of a sudden.

Hank must be confusing Connor with his stoic silence, because he looks worried, and asks, timid, “Do you want me to?” Hank chokes on his own spit and has to cough it out.

“Uh, well, I think—” Cough, cough. He smacks himself in the chest. “—if you’re okay with it, it could be, uh, f… fun? And different. You said you like different, so. Also, uh, we can always stop, you know, if you’re in the middle of it and you’re—” Hank waves his hands vaguely. “‘Oh, wait, I hate this.’ You can stop.”

“Okay,” says Connor, his lip between his teeth. His eyes are smiling. Warmth kicks at Hank’s stomach.

“Should we, uh—” _Stop_ _fucking_ _stuttering_. “Bedroom?”

“Yes.” Connor hops off his lap, finally.

Hank can’t tell if he’s turned on or not. Embarrassing, but this whole situation is embarrassing, and he’d have shut it down ten minutes ago if he didn’t… really, really want it.

“I’ll meet you in there,” says Connor, grabbing his wine glass and moving toward the kitchen.

“Yeah, I’m gonna—bathroom.” _I’m_ _gonna_ _bathroom_. Great. Hot.

He tries not to look at himself in the mirror of the master bath, but it’s impossible after a point. He’s looked worse in his life. In the year since he and Connor started dating, and particularly since they moved in together, he’s gotten better about self-care and lost a little bit of weight. He’s still an old dude with a beer belly, yeah, but he doesn’t look like he crawled out of a dumpster like he used to. Besides, Connor is already dating him, they live together, he knows what Hank looks like, eyebags and all. He’s still here. He isn’t going to snap out of a trance halfway through fucking Hank and realize he could do a hell of a lot better, no matter how persistent that theme is in Hank’s nightmares.

He brushes his teeth and washes his face and does what he has to do to make himself feel—ready. When Hank exits the bathroom, he finds Connor sitting on the foot of the bed with a topped-off glass of wine. He stiffens when he sees Hank, so Hank approaches slowly, and sits beside him.

Connor makes fleeting eye contact, then turns away and drains half his wine.

Doubt growls in Hank’s chest. “Hey.” He puts a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “If you don’t wanna do this, that’s okay.”

Connor moves out from under his hand—that kind of stings, he can’t pretend it doesn’t. Connor springs to his feet, throws back the rest of his wine, and turns to Hank. “No,” he says, his voice going low and gravelly. “I’m going to fuck you.”

Hank gapes. He gets what Connor is trying to do, but it’s—weird. A beat passes; it’s awkward. “Did you… are you doing a voice?”

“I’m not doing a voice.”

“You sounded like you were doing a voice.”

“Maybe I was doing some kind of voice.” Connor waves his empty glass defensively. “I was doing what you do.”

“I don’t do a voice, Con. That’s how I sound.”

Connor stares at him, mouth open, face contorting in frustration. “I…” He sighs, and turns to glare at the wall, like he’s re-calibrating. Hank watches his lips move silently. Talking to himself.

“Connor.”

Connor shuts his eyes and whines.

“Connor, hey.” Hank grabs Connor’s hand and his eyes fly open. “You don’t have to do a whole song-and-dance. Just be yourself.”

He pouts at Hank. “But I don’t know what I’m doing. If I pretend to be you….”

“Then you still don’t know what you’re doing and you’re trying to be something you’re not,” says Hank firmly. “I’ll show you the ropes, okay?”

“The ropes,” Connor echoes, swinging their arms.

“I don’t want this if you’re not gonna be—you.” That defeats the purpose. He’s not looking for some generic domination. He’s not into that; he’s into Connor. “So whatever that means… if you’re uncertain or you have—questions.” Fuck, Connor asking him how to do it. Why does that get him all hot? “That’s part of it for me. You just do what feels right to you.”

Connor looks at him for a long moment. He steps toward Hank and stoops to kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”

“I gotcha, don’t worry,” says Hank, shrugging, ignoring how warm his face feels.

“You always do.”

Connor stands up straight again. “What… I want you to be comfortable, how should we…”

“I think I can manage one position right now.” Hank scoots back and lets himself fall back against the mattress. “I hope this works for you.” The vaulted ceiling is made of beautiful, shiny pine. Markus wouldn’t have lent them the place if he weren’t okay with them fucking in it, and that’s the only thing that keeps him from feeling weird about having sex in someone else’s space.

The bed dimples beside him, and then Connor is hovering over him, smiling broadly, cupping his cheek. “Yes, it works for me.” He dips down and presses his mouth to Hank’s. Hank’s lips part against the touch, and he puts a hand through Connor’s hair, pulling him closer.

Connor relaxes into their kiss. Kissing is familiar to them, a thing they know, but somehow Connor puts the same care and astonishment into his kisses as he did when they first started dating. He never seems to get tired or bored of Hank’s whole old guy thing. Connor’s mouth is warm, soft, welcoming to Hank’s tongue. He squeaks in surprise when Hank swipes the roof of his mouth. Hank feels him sinking into Hank’s body, which he does sometimes when they make out—Hank touches him and he goes liquid. Which maybe isn’t what he should do when he’s supposed to be topping, but it’s cute and sweet and very Connor, and it charms Hank regardless.

So what if they don’t have to do things how they’re supposed to do them? They never have. Now would be a stupid time to start.

Hank gets caught up in how supple Connor’s body feels, draped across Hank’s chest, their legs mingling. Connor is small in comparison to Hank and his hips slot neatly between Hank’s legs, as he pulls away from Hank’s mouth and starts to move down his body. He loses some of his liquidity when he does, but Hank finds he’s not all too disappointed by it. Instead he gets to look up and see Connor’s eyes glisten with excitement, and interest, and lust. It hits Hank in a deep place, stirs a feeling he forgot he could feel.

Connor’s hand trails down the center of Hank’s chest, over his belly, and skates around the tent at his crotch. He smiles. “Okay. I’m ready.”


	2. two

“The first thing I’m gonna tell you to do is slow down.”

Connor, who’s trying to unbutton Hank’s fly with trembling fingers, shoots Hank a look that’s half glare, half eye roll. “Slow down?”

“Yeah, just—” Hank puts his hand over Connor’s to still its tremors. “Slow down. Take it easy.” He undoes the button himself. Connor continues making the face. “What’s wrong with taking it slow?”

Connor sits back, arms across his chest. He’s straddling Hank’s hips. “You don’t take it slow with me.”

“First of all, yes I do. Second,” Hank says, and he hesitates, because he hates having to say this shit aloud. “Unlike you, it’s been a minute since anybody stuck anything up in that region of me, so I’m gonna need…” He trails off. He can’t think of a word for what he’s asking Connor to do. He sees it clearly in his head, he just—he can’t verbalize it.

If only Connor could read his mind. They could be one of those couples who finish each other’s sentences, but they aren’t. They need words. Connor needs words. “What do you need?” he asks, sounding worried.

“Just… just, uh, be gentle, I guess?” _Be gentle._ Barf. “I’m old and shit.”

Connor’s head tilts curiously to the left, his expression blank. Hank knows that’s his thinking face, but that’s the extent of his knowledge. After a year together, he’s gotten better at reading Connor’s micro-expressions and nervous ticks, but Connor is still Connor, and he doesn’t leave his thoughts and feelings bare.

In the end, Connor simply answers, “Okay.” Hank doesn’t know what to do with that, but he has to assume they’re past the point where Connor would lie if he were uncomfortable.

“Okay,” says Hank, nodding. He can feel the bedding messing up his hair and tries to pat it down.

“Can I take off your pants?”

“Yeah, sure. Sure, of course.”

Connor delivers a smile. It’s reassuring, even when Hank didn’t realize he needed reassurance. Connor undoes his fly and works on removing Hank’s jeans. Hank lifts his hips to help the process, and pain shoots up his back. He grunts and sinks back into the mattress while Connor pulls off the jeans down his legs.

“Did that hurt?” Connor asks, frowning.

“Just a little. I’m good.” Hank is less hard than he was a few minutes ago, but with Connor touching his bare legs he can feel it coming back. Connor is staring at the tent in Hank’s boxers as his fingers stroke absently at the inside of Hank’s thighs. His touches climb gradually higher, and Connor’s eyes flicker between Hank’s face and his underwear. Hank smiles and puts his hands behind his head—if he seems at ease, he figures, Connor might mirror him.

It works, kind of. The glint of nervousness in Connor’s eyes persists, but he goes about removing Hank’s boxers. His pace is glacial, and Hank almost tells him that he didn’t mean _everything_ has to be gentle, especially not the parts that are rote and familiar. But it’s better to let Connor figure things out himself, to let him try things, and criticism might spook him. So Hank tries to relax instead—he uses the time to psych himself up for what’s coming. He reminds himself to keep breathing and stay loose, as much as he can manage. He reminds himself that everything is going to be fine, even if this doesn’t go perfectly. He and Connor are solid; they can stand to have bad sex once or twice.

Not that they ever have. He can’t think of a single time he didn’t enjoy sleeping with Connor. If this is the first time he doesn’t—or Connor doesn’t—it’d be Hank’s fault, if that were to happen. He’s the one who wanted to do it. _Shit_ , he thinks. _Shit, shit_.

He opens his mouth to say something, only Connor’s hand grips the base of his cock in that moment, and Hank makes the mistake of glancing down just as Connor touches his tongue to the tip. “Shit,” he murmurs. And suddenly he’s too distracted by Connor sucking on the head of his cock to say anything else. He leans back into the support of his hands behind his head and sighs, letting himself enjoy the sounds Connor makes while worshipping at his dick. Even after a year, Hank doesn’t know if Connor actually loves the taste of cock, or if he just gives a stunning performance of it. Or if he knows it feels good when he makes sounds against Hank’s dick and he’s working that angle. Doesn’t really matter, honestly—if Hank ever asked he knows he’d get a lecture about the gratification of stimulating one’s partner, how it doesn’t make a difference and so on.

Connor doesn’t wait for Hank to touch him. He winds the fingers of his free hand into his own hair and twists them tight. He slides his lips down on Hank’s cock until they meet his fingers at the base, and then he removes his hand entirely and swallows it all. Hank can hear his throat twitch wetly when he suppresses his gag reflex. He’s gotten stupidly good at that, with lots of practice.

As Hank relaxes into the blowjob, lets it take him somewhere blissful, his sense slowly returns. He could finish if Connor keeps this up—he could be good for the rest of the night. They don’t need to complicate things.

Not that he plans on expressing this to Connor. No, he’ll just let the kid go, let him do what he does well, and when Hank is ready he’ll push Connor off and fist himself to completion, then claim he’s done for tonight. Too old to come twice two nights in a row, and all that. Connor might know he’s full of shit, but he’ll let it go if Hank can get a finger in him. That’s usually how it goes when they argue about sex.

Then Connor slides off Hank’s now very hard dick and sits up, wiping his mouth. Hank’s hand goes straight to his erection, because he wasn’t expecting the wet warm sucking feeling to _stop_ and it’s like being thrown into a cold shower.

Connor grabs Hank’s wrist, stopping him from stroking himself.

“Fuck, Con—”

“I want you to save it!”

Well, shit. Maybe Hank isn’t getting out of his stupid fantasy after all.

Connor scrambles off the bed and toward one of their suitcases. “What did you do with the lube?”

“Uh. I think it’s in my shaving kit?”

“It’s not,” says Connor, holding up the bag, looking desperate.

“Then I probably didn’t put it back after yesterday,” Hank admits. Connor’s face pinches unpleasantly and he hisses like an irritated cat before he sprints out of the bedroom. “Sorry,” Hank calls after him.

“You have to put things back after you use them, Hank! Or—”

“Or I’m going to lose them, I know.” Hank takes the opportunity to stroke his dick.

“This is why—”

“I have to keep buying new reading glasses? Yeah, I know.”

Connor returns to the bedroom, holding the lube and glaring. “You’re very frustrating sometimes.”

Hank can’t help but grin. “Get over here and I’ll make it up to you.”

Connor shuffles toward the bed. He tosses the lube down beside Hank. His frown softens into a pout. “How?”

“Take off your pants and I’ll show you.”

Connor wriggles out of his jeans. There’s a significant bulge in the front of his boxer briefs. “Underwear too?” he asks.

“Underwear too, babe.”

Hank has seen, touched, sucked Connor’s dick probably a hundred times, but Connor still manages to blush when he pushes down his underwear and exposes himself to Hank. He crawls back onto the bed and straddles Hank’s hips. He’s still wearing the sweater he borrowed and it hangs loosely around his torso, drawing attention to the slender white lines of his legs, his dick half-hard and pink between them.

“There we go,” says Hank, stroking Connor’s thighs. “Scoot forward. I’m gonna use my mouth on you.”

Connor nods and moves forward as instructed, placing his knees above Hank’s shoulders. He holds back the excess of the sweater and feeds his cock to Hank’s open, waiting mouth. Hank feels Connor getting hotter and harder against his tongue, and hears him gasping for air; the blood in Hank’s own dick pulses hot and violent, making him groan around Connor’s dick. “Oh, god,” Connor mutters. He folds forward, bracing himself against the mattress and smothering Hank’s head in sweater, but it’s kind of hot, surprisingly—in the temperature sense but in the sexual sense, too. Hank grips Connor’s hips, which keep twitching forward, trying to fuck Hank’s mouth. Connor isn’t letting himself thrust, but he should. Hank can’t say as much with a mouthful, so he settles for squeezing Connor’s ass and tugging him closer.

Saliva is gathering on Hank’s lips and when he slurps, Connor bucks forward. The heat of his erection scrapes the roof of Hank’s mouth, sending a blissful chill down his spine. “ _Ah_ —oh—sorry.” Hank manages to hum his disagreement, a sort of _nu-uh_ , and he does his best to say _more._ “You like it?” Hank goes _mmhmm_ and suckles loudly. He wraps his hands around Connor’s narrow waist and drags him through the motion of thrusting. “Ah, oh, okay—”

Connor sits up again, freeing Hank’s face from the tent of his sweater. He swallows hard and the apple of his throat bobs. His glasses have slid down his nose and he has to push them up so he can see what he’s doing, as he begins to fuck Hank’s mouth.

He’s slow about it at first; Hank can practically hear him repeating the word _gentle_ to himself over and over. Hank smiles around his dick, and looks up, waiting for Connor to glance down. He does, and when their eyes meet, intensity arcs between them. Connor is fucking Hank’s mouth, moving in and out of him, hot and hard against Hank’s tongue, and Hank likes it, and Connor likes it too. “Oh, shit,” Connor gasps, the shallow motion of his hips picking up speed. “I want to—oh.”

He pulls out of Hank’s mouth, clutching his dick, and Hank says, “Are you coming?”

“No, I want to—” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he does start climbing down Hank’s large frame and reaching for the lube. “I’m ready.”

“Oh yeah?” says Hank, suppressing a laugh. He doesn’t think chuckling at Connor’s enthusiasm would be particularly helpful, right now. It’s just cute how eager he seems to get his dick in Hank’s ass, like a teenager. “Don’t forget, you gotta prep it—”

“I know!”

“You know what to do?”

Connor’s lip curls indignantly. “I know how to finger an asshole, yes.”

Hank does laugh, finally, and lets his head fall back to the bed. “That’s right. You do that when you jerk it.”

“Only sometimes. Also, ‘jerk it’ has to be the least attractive way to refer to masturbation.”

“Really? Less attractive than ‘masturbation’?”

Hank hears the top of the lube pop open. “Have you actually never fingered yourself?”

Hank shrugs. He has, but he doesn’t want to say it. It’s embarrassing—he’s not a hot young bottom who owns multiple dildos, like Connor. “Lucky for me, I don’t go solo much anymore.”

“Me either.” Connor tosses him a little smile. He wraps a slick hand around Hank’s leaking dick and pumps him a couple of times before laying his finger against Hank’s hole.

Hank makes a face. “Fuck, that’s cold.” Connor quickly retracts the finger, his eyes huge. “No, leave it, it’ll warm up.” Connor returns the finger to the tight muscle, running a tentative circle around it, and repeating the motion with more pressure when Hank nods.

It’s hard not to be tense when the person who’s supposed to be relaxing you is obviously tense himself, and Connor is _tense_. Despite his comfort with his own asshole, he doesn’t approach fingering Hank like someone who’s done it a thousand times. He pushes his finger just an inch into Hank, and retracts it a second later when Hank grunts. Hank could probably get the quarter from Connor’s pocket and bounce it off him, he’s so tense.

“Calm down,” says Hank, in a sigh. He doesn’t mean to sound as tired as he does, like Connor gets when his patience with a student is wearing thin. “I just mean, I need you to unclench if I’m gonna unclench, you know?” Connor nods, but he’s still got that spooked look in his eyes. “You want to do a breathing exercise or something?”

“No.” Connor takes a deep breath anyway. “No. I just need to focus.”

“Yeah, but don’t _over-_ focus—”

“I’ve got it,” says Connor, for the first time with a shred of believability. Hank sniffs, then lays back. He feels lubed up fingers on the inside of his thigh, stroking gently. “You should relax.”

Connor continues petting him, and Hank sinks into the bed, going slack. He used to do an exercise like this to fall asleep, where he imagined the stresses of a day flowing out the tips of his toes and his fingers. They haven’t exactly had a stressful day here at the luxurious lake house, but back home there’s always shit he’s carried on his shoulders so long he’s forgotten its weight. Tough cases at work, the way people stare if he ever dares to hold Connor’s hand in public. Saving for Cole’s college and his own retirement. Connor… if Connor is okay. If Connor is happy. He lets the worries roll away from him and dissipate into nothing. He feels himself heave a great big sigh.

A sigh that turns into a groan when Connor’s finger slips back inside him.

“Is that okay?” says Connor softly. Hank’s eyes have slipped closed, making the familiar, throaty cadence of Connor’s voice ring louder in his ears. Hank loves that fucking voice—when they first met he thought it sounded a little like a cartoon mouse, and hell, maybe it does, but that voice _does_ things to him. It’s the voice that moans during sex. It’s the voice that mutters _good morning, my love_ in his ear an hour before he planned on getting up. It’s the voice that doesn’t always say what Hank needs to hear but always tries to say something, and even when the words aren’t quite right, their intent is good enough—Connor is very articulate, sometimes too articulate, but he speaks from a place of compassion and that’s usually all Hank needs. A little compassion.

“Yeah,” he tells Connor. “You’re doing great.”

Hank feels the finger sinking deeper into him. It’s not exactly pleasurable, but it’s not unpleasant, either, especially when he thinks about the shape of Connor’s hands, knobby knuckles on long white fingers.

Connor says, almost whispering, “It should be…”

The finger curls and yeah, there’s the fucking pleasure, all right. Hank’s throat wants to make a weird, high-pitched sound but he swallows it, presses it into a masculine groan. A stupid instinct—Connor wouldn’t care if Hank started squeaking like a pig, he’d probably love it—but Hank’s spent a lot of time around people who aren’t Connor. It’s a hard habit to break.

“I think I found it,” says Connor happily, working his finger against the spot, while Hank turns another groan into a casual throat-clear.

“I think maybe you did.”

“Does it feel good?”

“Yeah, it—” Heat pulses through Hank’s hips. “Mmf, yeah, it’s pretty good.” He doesn’t know what to do with his arms. Connor always paws at the sheets and pulls hair, both Hank’s and his own, but Hank can’t imagine that feeling natural for him. He sticks his hands behind his head again, out of the way.

Connor adds another finger and Hank exhales sharply. “You know,” says Connor. “If you like having your prostate stimulated, I could do it when you’re inside me, too.”

Connor is the smartest person Hank knows, and he’s still so, so stupid sometimes, because he appears to have no clue why what he just said wrecks Hank completely, or even an awareness that Hank has been wrecked. Hank’s brain shorts out, between the gentle thrumming of Connor’s fingers in his ass and the thought of Connor—reaching around to do that while Hank fucks him. He hears himself say, “ _Auh_.” It’s a noise of surprise and pleasure and it scratches his throat. His dick flinches against his stomach. “That’s—that’s an idea,” he manages, short of breath.

“Just an idea.” Connor’s hand comes up to wrap about Hank’s dick. Connor gives him a single, slow, considered pump. “Can I put a third one in?”

“Uh, why the hell not, I guess.” That’s more than he’s ever done to himself, and fingers feel nothing like the stiff plastic of a toy.

It’s a lot, and he can tell Connor’s dick is going to be a lot, too. When Connor asked him if he’d ‘been the receiving partner during anal sex’ or whatever, he’d said yes, and it’s only just now occurring to Hank that Connor could assume that meant he’d had dick before. He catches the thought before he says it aloud—his instinct is to clarify—but he’s almost ready to go and there’s no need to drop, _by the way, you’re kind of my first_ right before Connor sticks it in him. Hank knows how Connor’s brain works and there’s a fifty-fifty chance he’d plunge into an inconsolable anxiety spiral. Not ideal when Hank wants… it. Him. Now. Soon.

Connor applies pressure to his prostate with one finger and stretches him with the other two. He’s a fast learner, ridiculously so. The Big Sexy Brain.

“I think I’m about ready,” Hank says, though what he means is, _will you go ahead and fuck me already?_ Hank is so hard he’s starting to feel a little lightheaded, overwhelmed by the rush of blood to his groin. Connor gives him a slow teasing pump every few seconds, not enough to get him anywhere but enough to make him leak precum onto his stomach and the t-shirt he’s still wearing. He lifts his head to get a look at his erection, and Christ, it’s red and veiny and it throbs. It probably looks stupid, his dick. All big and hard with nowhere to go.

Connor catches his eye and stares. He’s flushed red on his cheeks and neck, and probably on his chest too, under Hank’s sweater. His lips sit slightly parted, of course. He takes his time retracting his fingers from Hank’s ass, then wipes them on Hank’s abandoned boxers.

“Thanks,” says Hank, sarcastic.

Connor doesn’t acknowledge the comment. He’s started to stroke his dick, still staring at Hank laid out before him, half-dressed and fully hard.

A wave of self-consciousness hits Hank. “What?” There’s a defensive edge to the question.

Connor blinks, then shakes his head. He seems to come back to himself. “Sorry.”

Hank’s tone softens. “Something wrong?”

“No. Nothing’s wrong.” Hank squints at him, and Connor says, “Genuinely.” He sits forward, erection in hand, getting ready. 

Hank reaches up and cups Connor’s cheek. “Hey, anybody ever mentioned how cute you are?”

“Yes, a wise old man once told me that.”

The joke surprises a boisterous laugh out of Hank—a boisterous laugh that becomes a startled groan when Connor pushes inside him. The sudden stimulation punches him in the gut, and fuck, it burns. “Fucking shit, Con—”

“Sorry!” He pulls out quickly, too quickly, which also burns. “Sorry, sorry—are you okay? I’m sorry.”

“I’m fine, but what happened to taking it slow and gentle?”

“I thought if I did while you were distracted it might be easier.” Connor winces down at him. “Do you want to stop?”

“No.” Hank adjusts his hips against the mattress. “I just need you to go slower. And put some more lube on that thing.” Connor nods and does as he’s told—funny how he’s still so eager to please, even when he’s supposed to be dominant. “Your enthusiasm is appreciated.”

Connor cracks a big, wide, honest smile. Lip in his teeth, he lines his hips up with Hank’s once again. Hank feels the head of Connor’s dick press against his entrance.

“Slow,” he repeats, shutting his eyes. “Slow as you can go.”

This time, he feels himself stretch to take Connor in. As promised, Connor moves at a pace so gradual Hank can barely feel the actual kinetics of him pushing deeper. He does feel himself growing fuller—inch by inch, opening up in a way he forgot his body could. He focuses on his breathing, and that makes him steadier, keeps him tethered to coherence. He still doesn’t know what to do with his arms, until he reaches out grip Connor’s shaking shoulders.

Hank is calm and quiet about this because—honestly, because he doesn’t know how else to be, even when he’s on this end of things—but Connor can’t manage stoicism. He’s panting, and redder than before, as his dick bottoms out and his hips rest against Hank’s ass. Hank slides a hand up to rest against his neck.

“I forgot what this feels like,” says Connor, partly laughing, partly wheezing.

“Yeah? Tell me how it feels.”

“Very hot. Tight. Feels good.” Connor swallows hard. “What about you?”

“Yeah?”

“How does it feel?”

“Feels like your dick is in me.” Hank grins up at Connor, pushing hair off his forehead. Connor whimpers in reply. “I think you can go. I’m all good.” The burning has ceased, and he’s adjusted to Connor’s girth and length. He knows Connor’s not big, not compared to Hank, but he still feels like—a lot. Which makes Hank wonder what it’s like for Connor to take his dick, and gleefully so. He must like feeling stuffed.

“I can go,” Connor murmurs to himself, glancing down, where their hips meet.

Hank hooks his hand around the back of Connor’s neck and pulls him down into a kiss. Not the most coordinated, graceful kiss they’ve shared—Connor moves sloppily against Hank’s mouth, and Hank ends up licking his chin—but Connor is sweet and soft and that’s all that matters to Hank.

With his lips brushing Hank’s cheek, Connor pulls himself over Hank, his first tentative thrust. So tentative that Hank doesn’t feel much difference. Hank slides his hands off Connor’s shoulders and to his hips, then under the hem of the sweater hanging loosely off his skinny frame, where Hank squeezes his ass. He’s got a soft spot for Connor’s ass—he’s got a soft spot for all of Connor—but Connor’s ass is just the right size for his hands, like someone sculpted it to Hank’s precise measurements.

Connor tries another little thrust, firmer than the first. He gasps, breath hot on Hank’s face, and presses their foreheads together. On the third one, Connor adjusts the angle of his hips, and Hank feels it.

“There we go, baby.” He gives Connor’s ass cheek another appreciative squeeze. “You got it.”

Connor repeats that thrust at the right angle, the one that shoves up against Hank’s prostate. Hank grunts involuntarily; it’s going to be harder than he thought to keep quiet during this. “Is that good?” Connor says, pitchy and breathless.

“Yeah, keep going.”

Connor nods and pulls himself up and back. “Okay. Okay.” He’s talking mostly to himself, adjusting his position so he can start to move for real. Hank’s stomach twists in anticipation. Gentle is good, it’s what he needs, but there’s such a thing as _too_ gentle. He hopes Connor knows that.

At first Connor looks down, watching what he’s doing, as he starts to pace his shallow thrusts. In typical Connor fashion, he pants in time with the motions of sex. That’s the standard, whether he’s getting fucked or doing the fucking—the little _ah_ s and _oh_ s drip from his open mouth at the slightest stimulation.

Once he’s found a rhythm, soft movements at an average speed, he looks up and meets Hank’s eye. Hank growls, though it’s about the last noise he expected from himself, but _fuck_ if Connor doesn’t look just as blissed out as usual. And at the edge of that pleasure he seems shocked, wide-eyed, like he can’t believe his body is doing this, feeling this.

“You look so hot, Connor.” Hank squeezes his cheeks again and Connor’s jaw drops. Drool is pooling at his bottom lip and he licks it up. “Fuck that ass, boy,” says Hank, grinning. And, just for fun, he gives Connor’s ass a hard slap.

“You—” Connor pushes in deep and has to bite back a moan. “You’re—” He keeps trying to talk back and losing the words to the squeeze of Hank’s ass around his cock. It’s incredibly satisfying.

Hank slaps his ass again. “Don’t tell me you don’t like it.”

“I like it!” Connor presses the phrase out in a short exhale. He drops his head forward, curling into Hank. “Fuck, oh my god.”

Hank can’t stop grinning. Seeing Connor… like this, in a new way, for a new reason, that shit sets him on fire. The fucking feels good, sure, but watching Connor do it is what puts Hank over the top.

He reaches for the lube. Connor is too busy with his desperate, messy thrusts to notice Hank slick up his hands. When Hank reaches for Connor’s ass again and lays a wet finger against his hole, he hollers in surprise and fucks up into Hank hard enough to send a pronounced shiver up Hank’s body.

“You want it?” Hank asks. He drags the pad of his finger in a circle around Connor’s entrance.

Connor fucks him harder and says, “ _Ahh_ , yhh, yuuh.”

Which is not exactly a yes, but it sure is close enough. Hank presses his finger into Connor. Connor folds forward, burying his face in Hank’s chest, wetting Hank’s shirt with his drool. As Hank pushes the finger deeper, he feels Connor bite into the fabric of his shirt and groan.

 _You’re a fucking genius_ , Hank tells himself. Every time Connor thrusts in and pulls back, he’s working himself against Hank’s finger.

“Fuck, Hank,” says Connor, his face still buried in Hank’s chest. On one of his thrust Hank hooks his finger, hitting Connor’s prostate, and watches Connor convulse. He tears up and sits back on Hank’s fingers, his cock sliding out. The sudden emptiness leaves Hank unsatisfied, but he’s distracted watching Connor grind down on his hand, his face twisted in surprised pleasure.

Connor reaches between his legs and snatches Hank’s wrist. Hank grins, thinking Connor’s going to shove him deeper, but he presses Hank away instead.

“Stop,” he gasps. “I’m going to come if you keep—”

“Then come, baby.”

“No, we’re not—I’m doing you, we’re doing you.”

Hank relents, retracting his hand. He’s stopped smiling. “All right.”

“You’re going to come first.” Connor grabs Hank’s dick with both hands and gives it two hard, firm pumps, as if to say, _I mean it!_

“Fine by me,” says Hank, not knowing how else to respond. He doesn’t care who comes first, never has, but Connor seems… intractable on this.

“I’m not going to come first,” Connor repeats, talking to himself, wiping sweat from his brow. He finally pulls off Hank’s sweater, leaving him in his button-down, which clings to his chest. “Don’t come,” he says under his breath. Hearing him talk to himself has Hank smiling again.

Connor climbs on top of him again and pushes inside, faster this time, because Hank is loose and ready. Connor sits back to get the right angle, and with the sweater gone, Hank can see the shape of his narrow torso as he slips into the repetitive motion, one hand holding Hank’s thigh, the other stroking his cock. Connor’s shirt is open enough to reveal the flush crawling down his chest, and his eyes are clear of the anxiety that plagued him before. The confidence goes straight to Hank’s erection.

The heat in his groin starts building faster, pulsing with each of Connor’s thrusts. “Fuck,” slips past his lips.

“Too much?” Connor pants, without slowing down.

“No.” Hank starts undoing the buttons of Connor’s shirt. “A little harder.” Connor obeys, and the resulting thrust makes every corner of Hank flinch. “Mm, _fuck_ —” He gets Connor’s shirt open and flicks his nipples in time with his thrusts.

“Ha, ah,” Connor mutters. He squeezes his eyes shut and starts pounding Hank’s ass. It’s fast and mostly reflex, not under his control, but Hank’s prostate doesn’t know that and it starts singing.

“Fuck, baby, that’s good. You’re doing good.” Hank takes over stroking his own dick—Connor is preoccupied—and if Connor wants him to come first, he’ll do it. “Just like that.” Hank grunts, because apparently that’s just the noise he makes in bed, regardless of what end he’s on. He and Connor are set in their ways, sort of. “Mmff. Christ. Shit,” Hank says. He makes what can he can only think of as a caveman moan, his diaphragm shaking—that _is_ new.

Connor opens his eyes and glances down to where Hank has started to pump himself with increasing speed. “Are you—gonna—”

“I’m close,” Hank says hoarsely. “Keep fucking me hard.” To punctuate the request, he slaps Connor’s ass, and Connor mewls.

As Hank nears it, he focuses on the sounds of effort falling endlessly from Connor, who is giving Hank every ounce of stamina he has to offer. Hank loves watching Connor unravel when they fuck—he didn’t expect that from tonight, but he’s getting it right now. Connor is a blushy, drooling, disheveled mess, but he can’t seem to slow himself down. Kind of like he’s driving a car with the breaks cut, only Hank can’t wait to see him crash.

Connor grabs at Hank’s hips, gripping belly and waist, whatever he can hold onto. Hank can feel nails digging into his skin.

“Oh, baby,” says Connor, brows knit, mouth open. “It feels so good. You feel so good.” Well. Now Hank knows why he says shit like that in bed all the time—it’s damn effective.

“Fuck.” Hank is right there, suddenly, right on the edge, and he pumps himself so fast his wrist twinges and he keeps going right through the pain. “Shit, Connor—” Connor doesn’t let up—he drives right up against Hank’s prostate and punches Hank right into his climax.

It’s been a long time since Hank came like this. He forgot how different it feels, not bad different, but simply _different_. More total, somehow. He isn’t thinking about the cum emptying onto his stomach, he’s feeling his toes, and the tremor in his chest when he groans, and the wave of tension that runs down his body. The orgasm pulls at all the parts of him.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” Hank breathes, his ass clenching around Connor’s cock as he rides the climax through. Above him, he hears Connor moan, the sound catching in his throat, and he thrashes against Hank’s ass. Hank registers that Connor is probably coming too, but there’s little he can say or do about it when he’s coming down from his own numbing climax. Almost as fast as the orgasm pulled him apart, it leaves him vacant and bloodless. He lets his spent dick flop wherever and his arms splay at his sides.

Connor slips out of him, and the mattress buckles when he collapses beside Hank. He takes Hank’s hand in his own, and they lie like that for minutes. More minutes than they’d usually stay quiet after sex, but the moment feels fragile, in a strange way. Like it’s encased in amber. They don’t have many firsts left.

Eventually Hank starts to feel weird about laying there with his flaccid dick out and cum dribbling out of him, so he sits up with a lot of protesting from his back. He forgot about his shitty back, somehow.

“Still hurts?” asks Connor, also sitting up.

“Yeah. I’m gonna go pop some more ibuprofen.” Hank gives Connor’s fingers a squeeze. “You want to rinse off with me?”

Connor smiles a small, twitchy smile. “Of course.”

“I’ll meet you in the shower.” Hank moves to stand, but Connor doesn’t release his hand. Hank raises an eyebrow, a question Connor answers by pecking him on the lips. “Cute,” Hank snorts, replying with a kiss of his own, this one open-mouthed and slow.

In the shower, Connor looks up at Hank with a curious smile. “You called me ‘boy’.”

“You called me ‘baby’,” Hank shoots back. It’s not equivalent, but he’s not sure how he let ‘boy’ slip, and with Connor topping, too. “Did you hate it?”

Connor gives a long-suffering sigh. “Unfortunately, I did not.” Hank laughs and runs his fingers through Connor’s wet hair.

They fall easily into their after sex routine—kissing in a shared shower, changing into pajamas. Connor puts on a tea kettle and, while it heats, goes around the bedroom picking up their dirty clothes. Hank puts out the fire in the living room and gets into bed, pinching himself occasionally so he doesn’t pass out before Connor joins him.

It’s all very normal. Hank doesn’t feel any different. Everything is just as it was, as it should be.

Connor arrives at the bed with a mug of spiced tea. He’s got his flannel pajamas on—a snowflake pattern. Hank doesn’t know where he finds them in adult men’s sizes. He settles in bedside Hank; they share another peck of a kiss.

“You have a good time?” Hank asks nonchalantly, pretending to be interested in the magazine he brought to bed. It’s one of many Connor receives, simply titled _Science_.

Connor glances sideways at him, and puffs on his tea.He looks radically different than he did half an hour ago—his damp hair brushed from his face, his skin not too flushed or sweaty, his expression even and mild. “Did you?”

“Not to be immature about it, but I did ask first.”

Connor purses his lips. “Okay.” He takes a sip of tea. “Yes, I had a good time.”

Hank sits back, grinning. “Yeah, I know. I just wanted to hear you say it.” Unlike—every other part of his life—it’s always obvious when Connor is having a good time in bed.

“Very funny,” says Connor. “What about you?”

Hank has trouble maintaining his grin. He glances down, flips a page in the magazine. “Yup. Had a great time. Managed not to look at the weird stuffed pig the whole time.”

Connor asks, his voice shrinking, “Really?”

Hank takes a grudging breath and sets down the magazine. He turns and faces Connor. “Really really.” He leans over and gives Connor a long close-mouthed kiss, then sits back. “I had a great time. You were great.” _Think of a better fucking word than ‘great’, maybe._ “Very hot. And it was my, uh, my first, actually.” He can’t keep looking Connor in the eye, he has to glance up. “Being on that side of it.”

Connor’s brows pinch together. “But you said…”

“Yeah, I meant with—I haven’t with an actual dick. Attached to a person. I hadn’t, I guess.” He sure has now.

Connor takes a moment to process the news, his mouth sitting open. Steam curls off his tea. “I was your first?”

Hank picks up the magazine again and sticks his nose in it, mostly so Connor won’t see him blush. “Yup. You popped my cherry.”

Connor laughs; it’s light and magical. Hank wishes Connor would laugh more, but the way it is, they’re rare and he treasures every one. He lowers the magazine from his face to watch Connor.

“I’m not sure that’s how that works.” Connor smiles into his mug. “You should have told me.”

“I didn’t want to psych you out.”

“That—actually, that was wise.” This laugh they share. Connor opens his mouth to say something else, and the smile on his lips shrinks. “I didn’t think I was going to be your first anything. I’d almost accepted it.”

“Oh, babe.” Hank slides an arm around Connor’s shoulders, and Connor sinks into his side. “You’re…” Hank scrambles for a way to express what he’s thinking—something about how everything with Connor is like a first, about how young Connor makes him feel, about how lucky he is to get to do this all again. His tongue goes leaden when he tries to verbalize it. “I love you, Connor.”

“I know you do,” Connor sighs. “You’re my first for a lot of things.”

“You’re my first—Connor? You are my first Connor.” It’s a stupid thing to say, but it makes Connor giggle.

“You mean it? Your very first ever Connor?”

“And there will never be another,” Hank confirms, kissing Connor’s hair. “Listen, there’s always gonna be things we do together that one of us has never done before. There’s always firsts.” Connor makes a small considerate noise. “So, maybe you’re not my first love. I’ve never loved anybody like I love you, because that’s not how love works. It’s different every time you love somebody new.”

“You know,” says Connor lightly, sipping his tea. “You can be very sweet.”

“Oh, yeah? You think?” Hank considers adding that Connor might not be his first, but he’ll sure as hell be his last, if Hank has anything to say about it. But he can hear Connor chide his morbid streak. “Then, happy anniversary.”

“Mmm. Yes. Happy anniversary.” Connor raises his mug for a toast, and Hank mimes clinking his invisible champagne. “To many more.” 


End file.
